Seventeen
by Scritch
Summary: About a year after his mother's betrayal, at a new school and with his pack ignoring him - the son of a traitor - Ulf is completely alone. And now he has nothing to lose.


**Important A/N:** You know, when I re-read this, I realize that there's not a damn word in the whole thing that even hints towards Blood and Chocolate, or even who the character is. Or even the fact that he's a werewolf!Alas! So I guess I'd better fill you in, no?

_About a year after Rafe's and Astrid's betrayal, at a new school and with the remainder of the Five ignoring him to pursue their own lives (aka girlfriends and any other chick that will let them feel her up), Ulf is completely alone. This is my take on what his death would be like - suicide at the age of 17._

**Seventeen**

It was the voices, he thought, that drove him to this. They surrounded him, encasing him and pressing down on him from all sides, trying to force him to kneel, force him to give in, force him to accept as they mocked, yelled, taunted, teased, ridiculed, shouted, cried, shrieked, and _screamed_. He could feel, in that moment of horrible clarity, his fragile psyche slowly breaking down, the cobweb strands of sanity slowly slipping away even as he ran, ran from the taunts and the horrible, wrenching agony that every jibe brought and stabbed at him.

He was trembling. Trembling so violently that his sweaty fingers slid on the cool metal handle of the bathroom door and he had to gulp deep breaths, trying desperately to slow the rapid beating of the remains of his shattered, broken heart. A click, and the door swung open unexpectedly; he fell heavily to the dirty linoleum floor, seeing the filth in every crack and receiving several stares of disgust for his blatant clumsiness.

Yes, it was the voices.

Bent over the porcelain bowl, torn jeans pressed against the cracked floor, he heaved dryly until there was only the sounds of his own horrible retching. Throat burning, he slumped to the ground, body limp as the last paroxysms swept over his form and left him to deal with physical pain and exhaustion as well as his ruptured emotional state. Lurching to his feet, the boy stumbled out of the stall and forced himself to face the wall-length mirror. Every time he looked, there was the terror that there would only be empty space staring back. And every time he felt a mixed sense of relief and regret at the sight of his own blank face. He was still here.

Sometimes he forgot.

He reached for the backpack that he'd cast aside earlier in his haste, his hands still trembling, his heart still beating too furiously fast. Yet there was a sense of confidence – no, not confidence, but acceptance – in his rather frantic movements as he rummaged through the mess of crumpled assignments, torn notes and shredded bindings that his classmates had been so kind as to leave for him. His perspiring skin touched cool metal, lying loosely and carelessly at the bottom of the bag, overlooked and disregarded - unimportant to those who could not understand the significance of the release that the sharp edge could bring.

This time, his release would be complete.

He locked himself in the largest stall – the handicapped stall. An unmanly giggle escaped him as the thought passed through his foggy mind, and he rolled up the sleeves of his favourite secondhand hoody, razor in hand, settling himself against the graffiti-stained wall. Shouldn't someone be playing 'Funeral March'? The familiar burning sensation of a blade on tender flesh turned his second giggle into a sharp gasp. Starting from one edge of his bared wrist, he dragged the blade slowly across, pressing deeper as the pain grew excruciatingly fierce, unbearable!

Too late to turn back now, he inspected the gaping wound with an almost bored expression that cleverly masked the agonizing turmoil that stormed within his broken soul. The blood came as a red fountain, blossoming over his pale skin and falling in a steady flow to the ground. His hand shook as he picked up the razor again, slick with blood, and forced torn flesh to complete one more task before it was allowed to rest. Quickly he slashed the second wrist, exhaustion swiftly taking over. Darkness tugged at the edges of his vision; sweet Death beckoned to him, and She was one voice that he was more than willing to give in to.

Suicide at only 17.

* * *

A/N: Got a bit of an Edgar Allan Poe style to it, hopefully. It's what I was aiming for. Damn, I don't like the ending. I'd appreciate your comments and opinions! 


End file.
